


Birthdays Suck

by Unloyal_Olio



Series: The One Where Derek Wants to Make Stiles His Mate and It's Blatant Porn [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Jobs, Derek is a jerkface, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mates, This is pretty much sassy PWP, Unbirthdays, douchebaggery is a valid kink, food!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:46:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unloyal_Olio/pseuds/Unloyal_Olio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles backs away until his butt hits a stool. "Um, I'm used to the version of Derek that sort of toler-<i>hates</i> me, so you being flirt-<i>hate</i>-cious—total mind fuck, dude. Mind fuck."</p><p>Unfortunately, Derek has no sense of humor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthdays Suck

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: this Derek is not very people-skilly. It's much closer to an early season one version of him. Also, this is just porn. I think it's dub-conny, but lightly so. More like dark seduction. Also, the title (which makes me laugh, cuz i'm mature) tells you more or less all you need to know.

It's summer and hot. The wind is cool, though, so that when Stiles emerges from Lydia's pool, half-drunk from the bottle of tequila he was swimming around with, he shivers. Whatever happened to the bottle, Stiles isn't all that sure. He doesn’t really care to look. As he pulls his towel around him, it’s partially to hide his face.

In the pool, everyone is sort of paired up. Scott and Allison are tangled in the darkest corner, sucking face. Isaac and Boyd are playing water polo with Erica, but there's way too much dry humping involved for it to be considered normal water polo. They'd asked him to join in—but since he likes _not dying_ , he declined. Erica’s claws keep coming out. Also, Stiles is pretty sure the reason Isaac’s swimsuit keeps floating up is that it’s shredded to a skirt at this point. Lydia and Jackson are already upstairs.

It’s his birthday, and he's not drunk enough for this. Luckily, the kitchen is stocked with birthday booze. Unluckily, when he sees it, the bottle he wants is out of reach. And that's because Derek is there, holding it hostage.

Because he’s an asshat.

"I want that," Stiles says, pointing at the blue bottle.

Derek doesn't answer. Instead, he takes a swig, tilting his head back and closing his eyes and suctioning his mouth around the bottle. Because Lydia's house is a Spanish-villa style McMansion, the kitchen has a dimmer switch. In the half-light, Derek's eyelashes seem longer. The hollows in his cheekbones are even more pronounced, and yeah, Stiles is a little drunk so he can admit that Derek is just a fucking sexy bastard.

He’d probably be even sexier if Stiles didn’t hate him.

Probably. Or maybe not. Hate is its own kind of sexy.

But Derek is still sucking on the bottle—there is red tongue visible through the glass nozzle.

Stiles makes a noise. It's supposed to be frustrated, but it comes out like something else entirely.

Derek’s mouth comes off with a pop, and he smiles around the glass. "It's mine."

" _My_ birthday."

"Oh, I know."

"So gimme."

Derek presses his lips back to the bottle. His tongue makes a final swipe across the top spiral before he finally slides it across the island to Stiles.

"You weren't supposed to make out with it first," Stiles grumbles. "You can't even get drunk."

"Does that bother you?"

"Which part?"

"My mouth on the bottle?"

Stiles takes a swig from the bottle. Too fast. His sinuses burn. "Whatever this is, um, not cool. Stop fucking with me. It's my birthday. You don't fuck with the birthday person. Although they probably didn't teach you that in asshole school."

"So it does bother you." Derek walks around to Stiles's side.

Stiles backs away until his butt hits a stool. "Um, I'm used to the version of Derek that sort of toler- _hates_ me, so you being flirt- _hate_ -cious—total mind-fuck, dude. Mind-fuck." And then Stiles laughs because puns are funny when you’re drunk.

But Derek has no sense of humor, so he just stands in front of Stiles glaring. Hotly.

It's when Stiles tries to take another swig of the bottle that Derek grabs it out of his hand. There is a swishing whir as Derek sends it sliding across the island. A slice of silence before the glass shatters on the tiles on the other side.

Stiles would be cleaning up. The proper thing to do would be to find a fucking broom and dustpan and do some sweeping, but Stiles can't even pay attention to the mess. 

Derek has stepped... in between his legs. Stiles's chest is bare except for the towel looped around his neck. It means that Stiles goes from being a bit cold from the pool to distressingly hot. Derek's hands slide up Stiles's swim trunks, thumbs dragging the wet fabric and scraping at his skin. Most distracting of all, Derek leans into him, breathing into his ear.

Stiles is already buzzed, but his head fucking swims when Derek says, "I'm hard."

It's just not what Stiles expected on this fine evening.

To be clear: Derek's been a dick the past year—but normally, if there' s a reason to be pleasant (like, let’s say Stiles's dad is around or Stiles has a chunk of his butt missing and is bleeding out his life-force mid-car chase), then Derek normally keeps the jerkery in check. Last summer, there had been a short period, a "magical" three weeks, where it had seemed like they might be closing in on a bitchy friendship, but then Derek had switched back to his alpha-asshole-self on Stiles, and well, it had just been one of those life lessons.

So Derek breathlessly whispering in Stiles's ear—while it might be annoyingly sexy—it is in no way a dream come true.

"Um, what do you expect me to do with that statement?" Stiles bites out.

"And you're eighteen." And that's when there's the nip at his ear. The sharp pressure that can only mean teeth.

Stiles could shove him or back away, but he doesn't. In part, because if Derek really wanted to hold him there—there's not much Stiles could do to get away. Also, there's a part of him that's just confused. Derek's not drunk. And even if he's an alpha fuckwit, Derek is also a borderline monk. He doesn't flirt with anyone. If he gets hit on, he glares until the poor bimbo turns tail and flees. He doesn't touch anyone that's not a wolf and pack. He doesn't touch Stiles. "Derek, what are you doing?"

Derek slides his hands up Stiles's back. It makes it so that when he presses against Stiles—Stiles feels everything. Just like Derek does. "I'm sorry if I've been… unfriendly this past year," he says.

"And by that you mean a total dickhead? Which—dude—stop pressing your manhood into mine. Not okay." Stiles wishes he sounded remotely authoritative. He doesn't.

Derek doesn't loosen his grip on Stiles, what he does is draw his head back so that he can meet Stiles's eyes. "You’re hard too."

Stiles jerks his face away. If this is some game, he doesn’t want to be drawn in. Derek knows the effect he has on everyone. He can fucking smell it all the time. He can smell it on Stiles right now.

"Stiles." Derek’s lips shape the letters into the skin on Stiles's neck.

"Whatever you're doing. It's not funny."

"Look at me."

"No."

What Stiles isn't expecting is Derek to lean down to the right. He snatches up a fork and then pokes it into a cake. Stiles's birthday cake.

Yeah, he'd kind of forgotten about it. But apparently his friends hadn't. It's already half eaten. "Wow, you're eating my birthday cake. And I haven't even tried a bite. You're such a great example of a human being—except that—"

Before he can get his werewolf joke out, Derek shoves the fork at him. "Open."

Stiles shakes his head, mouth closed.

"Fine." Derek scrapes the cake off the tines with his fingers and the next thing Stiles knows, it's being mashed onto his lips.

He makes an indignant noise. A "Mmmpheehhh!"

But then it's not just the chocolate and cake, but Derek's tongue. With broad strokes, he's licking the cake off of Stiles's lips. The drag is rough, and apparently, the chocolate in the crease along Stiles's chin must be stubborn, because by the time Derek's done with it, the whole area feels abused. When Derek sucks his bottom lip in, the soft slurp causes Stiles to jump back, but Derek holds him there. Callused palms are flat on his cheeks, sticky with heat. 

It’s, um, dangerous. As in Stiles just wants to fucking melt. Or come in his pants. But Derek is Derek, and Stiles is just trying to keep his mouth shut.

Except that Derek's lips are unfairly, absurdly talented. It's like a Click a Twist and a Click, and they fucking undo all the locks and deadbolts. The portcullis is raised without a hitch as Derek's tongue sails right in. And then it's not just chocolate hot on his tongue. But slippery tequila, too. Also, there are sounds. They start with growls and end with groans, and Stiles would like to pretend that they're all from Derek, but they're not. 

Oh, God, he wants to blame the alcohol. But no, it's not. Yeah, it's keeping him relaxed, and it tastes good, but mostly, just _Derek_. His hands are sliding under Stiles ass. The stool is replaced by the counter. Another bottle falls. A spray of green glass decorates the tiles in front of the fridge.

Stiles doesn't care. Because _holy shit._ Derek doesn't do this. He doesn't touch people. He doesn't kiss people.

When Derek leaves his mouth, it's to push away the towel, letting it fall to the floor so he can attack Stiles's neck, and that's when Stiles curses—a lot—to try and clear his head, but then he forces himself to think and he says, "Is this some weird birthday present? Because—"

But Derek clamps a hand over his mouth. Derek's other hand pushes into Stiles's swim trunks. His teeth are sharp against Stiles's neck. Almost too sharp.

At the threat, Stiles's back tenses, but then Derek's hand has a grip on him, and it's not just his back—his whole body goes rigid. "Fuck."

"Yeah, fuck," Derek repeats back to Stiles, and then his mouth is back on Stiles. More chocolate and tequila and heat.

Because Stiles's breath is hoarse as Derek jerks him. Rough tugs: big hand, hot grip.

Stiles can’t get his eyes to focus. There's not enough air in the room.

When the kissing stops, it's because Derek's gotten frustrated with his trunks and he's pulling them down. Stiles's skin is damp and sticks with too much friction on the cold counter. He wants Derek's hand back.

Instead what he gets is Derek's tongue.

Not on his dick. No. Derek is a fucking tease. He licks a stripe up the middle of Stiles’s right quadricep. It pulls hairs, stinging, and the trail that's left behind looks like black lines that have been combed. Derek's smile is fucking evil: a devil dancing in flames. Not a big smile but a slanted, twisted smirk that shows he knows exactly what he's doing to Stiles and knows exactly how close he's brought Stiles to the edge.

Stiles curses, says, "Fucking stick it in your mouth if you're going to," and well, he yelps when Derek's actually does.

His hand flies back. Into the cake. There's is chocolate squishing between his fingers.

His dick is hitting the back of Derek's throat.

When Derek draws back, Stiles makes the mistake of watching, and Derek's eyes are glinting red in the kitchen light, and his cheek bones are hollowed and the fact that there's spit trailing down his chin shouldn't be so fucking hot.

But yeah, kinda is.

Derek sucks down again, and Stiles gasps. He wants to grab Derek's hair. He does. 

God, there's fucking cake everywhere. Chocolate is streaked down Derek's temple. Stiles put it there. He's trying to set a rhythm without grabbing Derek's face and fucking his mouth. Because that thought makes him crazy. Asshole alpha getting his mouth fucked by Stiles. And Oh God, he is _close_.

Derek's panting around him. He's groaning too, like he likes this. Like having Stiles in his mouth is his personal fantasy.

Stiles is going to come. Because he's a decent human being, he tries to say this. "Cluuh-ose." His thumb pushes on Derek's chin. 

Derek smacks Stiles's hand away and sucks even fucking harder.

Stiles's spine tightens from toes to temples and then he's sagging backward. This time, he thinks he toppled the chip bowl because there's a wobbling noise and something sharp but salty-smelling is poking his ear lobe.

Because he's a sexy freak, Derek is swallowing. He's drinking Stiles down, and even when one of the lingering spurts spills over on his chin, he's licking it right up.

Stiles wants to die. Derek has chocolate cake dried on his cheeks and a dot of cum on a spot on his upper lip, and his chin is just fucking red and glistening with spit. It's probably the prettiest thing Stiles has ever seen in his entire life.

He pulls Derek up to him. Derek doesn't stop him as Stiles licks at his face, even using his teeth to scrape off the more stubborn, crusty bits. What Derek does do is run his fingers through Stiles's hair. Chips crumbs flake onto the counter. It’s almost natural when Derek cups his face. The kiss is so lazy, because Derek's mouth is well-worked. His tongue feels soft and languid as it curls against Stiles's.

It shouldn't be a big deal when Stiles cups Derek through his pants.

But Derek freezes.

"I want to—" Stiles starts.

Derek grabs his jaw. "Not until—" And this time he looks away. "It's the same as before."

Stiles takes back his hand. "What's the same?"

Derek let's go of his face to run a finger down his neck.

And that's when Stiles knows.

But Derek says it anyway. "I still want to bite you. Not just because I want you in my pack."

Stiles closes his eyes. "My answer hasn't changed."

Derek lets go of him. "I haven’t actually tried to convince you yet."

It's after Derek leaves that Stiles pulls his pants up. He double-knots the drawstring. In the bathroom, there's hot water and a washcloth, and Stiles scrubs himself red. Even with the alcohol and the orgasm, he wants to strangle something.

When he comes back outside, Isaac is sweeping up the glass on the floor, while Erica is perched on the counter. She's eating the remainder of the cake with her fingers. By her smile, they heard fucking everything.

Stiles leaves the party when she starts singing "Happy Birthday."

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so we'll see how many of these I can knock out during this "hurri-cation" -- I'm thinking we'll end up with mpreg. Because I've never written that one before, and I'm bored.


End file.
